


Killer Queen.

by AlexKrenin



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKrenin/pseuds/AlexKrenin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompts from my friend Shutetty : </p><p>Prompt One : <br/>Sam's fiancé dumps her one week before Christmas, and Malcolm can't stand the sight of her crying. <br/>Prompt Two : <br/>Write a more explicit sequel of prompt One. </p><p>With pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conquered land

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a stand-alone, very short thing.   
> Christmas fluff, nothing harmful. 
> 
> I wouldn't even have published it here, if I hadn't been asked for a sequel, and the sequel hadn't grown into a massive chunk.   
> So here it is, for you Malcolm x Sam shippers ! Enjoy !

 

 

 

I came in, thursday morning, 8:00 am sharp, and she wasn’t there. It never happens. I hung up the phone on instinct, and I wasn’t even finished. I didn’t check mails, I didn’t even call anyone. I stood there near her desk, and waited, fingertips tapping random tunes on the back of her chair.

 

She came in, 12 minutes late, and though, unlike half of the women of this kingdom, she actually knew how to apply make-up, I sensed she’s been crying.

I hated that sight instantly.

I asked what happened, and she bravely held her ground for sixty seconds exactly before she gave up and burst into tears, whispering about that cunt, Adam or Alan or fuck-what-an. He left her the night before with a note and the cheapest part of her gifts to him, saying she was “too bossy”, “too pedestrian” and he couldn’t spend more time with “such a workaholic”.

 

-”I don’t even talk about work” she cried. “I just, sometimes, talk about you.”

 

Part of me wondered what she tells when she speaks about me, but at the time, I was beyond that, already asking for that cunt’s whereabouts so I could go there and immolate him. She refused to tell, waving her trembling hands, and at some point I dropped it, because she had to stop crying. I decided I couldn’t stand the sight of her crying, and wouldn’t tolerate anymore of it.

 

Thing is, how do you stop a woman from crying?

No fucking idea. Not my area, you see.

 

I remembered what my mother did when my sister came back home sobbing because another twat had been unworthy of her. Arms around the shoulders. Right. Say something nice. Mean it.

I mumble about her finding a better man. As if I didn’t know how stuffed with cunts this world has become. Well, she hugged back. Her sobs didn’t recede, though. I had to find something better than that. I browsed through the very short list of women I knew, and looked for things that made them happy. Gifts. Compliments. Restaurant. _Boring._

Christmas.

Yes. Christmas was in one fucking week, and all the women I knew adored this time of the year. Never could understand what they love in that exhausting late night family talk show. I knew Sam’s parents were long dead, and that she was counting on this arsespray of a man to be her whole family this year. Well, at least Christmas at the Tuckers, this living hell of an evening, would serve a higher purpose this time.

-”You could come up to Glasgow with me this year, pet” I tried. “There won’t be much, my mother and sister, her daughter of seven… still, would be better than ending up lonely, eh?”

 

She stared at me as if I had spoken the words of Jesus fucking Christ. Then she hugged tighter, and her sobs did stop. Good. I’ve always hated starting a day with a lost argument.  
  
  
  


 

 

 

***

 

 

 

There she is, now, right next to me at the diner table, her black silk dress the classiest thing I’ve ever seen.

 

 

My mother hates my suits, she says it’s what I wear to do bad things, so she has me wearing fucking sweaters when I’m under her roof, so tonight, next to Sam, I feel like a fucking moron.

She doesn’t seem to care, beaming joy, so immediately lovely and polite that even my Highlander Warlord mum liked her after half an hour tops.

 

Sam helped my sister Karen in the kitchen, played with my niece’s brand new talking doll - _'I want to go shopping!' oh, great role model, thank you very much you plastic bitch_ – and complimented my mother on every single detail of the house, apparently at the same fucking time. She’s been a fucking delight.

 

And those black heels she’s wearing get far too much of my attention.

 

 

For the first time in ages, I’m actually getting an ally in the constant war that is Christmas diner at Moira Tucker’s house.

-”You get thinner year after year, Malcolm. You are wasting away! I am sure you’re not even eating properly! I didn’t raise you that way! My children take care of themselves !” my mother scolds again, like she does every fucking year, but this time, instead of me changing subject and stepping back, Sam gently comes to my side and whispers something about her seeing me taking regular, balanced meals - _oh really?_ \- , and just naturally not putting on weight, some men are born that way, you see?

Miracles happen at this time of the year, they say. Moira Tucker nods and lets go of me.

-”Oh, fuck, Sam, thank you.” I sigh without thinking once Moira’s in the kitchen.

 

She chuckles, then, and has a wink for me that **is** the classiest thing I’ve ever seen – _scratch previous statement._

 

 

 

When Karen, voice thick with emotion, reminds everyone how rare my visits have been those last ten years, how I barely see my niece grow with all my working and working, _oh, not again_ -, she smiles and sweetly enumerates all the changes and improvements I helped getting voted in the country for seven years, and, fuck, she does remember **all of them** _ **.**_

She doesn’t even have a memo or anything. She just goes through the list, half of it even I forgot.

At the end of it, Karen and Mum are gaping, and, eyes down in my plate with fucking useless intensity, I perfectly know I am blushing.

The subject is dropped and never brought up again.

 

 

 

At some point, gifts are unwrapped, and once more Karen scolds me about my own gifts to them being far too expensive, with that ‘money doesn’t replace affection’ speech that always make me pray for my own death.

Sam, opening her own package and gasping in surprise, lifts the silver necklace I spent five hours hesitating about in the air, and eyes tearing, jumps up to hug me.

-”Malcolm, it’s perfect! No one has ever took the time to find something that matches my tastes so much. Oh, thank you for being there, thank you!

Her perfume cuts my breath in two. Something like lilac. Discrete and delicate. I close my eyes.

When I open them again, Karen is gazing at her own gift – _free tickets for Maidie and her to theaters, amusement parks, movie festivals and museums, one year supply_ \- and suddenly she cries a bit too, runs into my arms whispering apologies and thank yous and I love yous and if that hell goes on I’ll have that stroke everyone wishes for me at the office.

Best Christmas I had in ages, though.

Thank you, Adam, Alan, fuckknowswhat-an. .

 

 

 

 

***

 

**Midnight. Solemn hour.**

The child’s in bed with my gift to her, a huge sheep plush that bleats when you squeeze it.

Moira and Karen are in the living room, watching Edinburgh’s Kirk Midnight Mass, like every fucking year, Mum’s roof, mum’s rules.

Sam and I, the clan of the heretics, are left in the kitchen, finishing the dishes and wrapping leftovers for charity. Mum’s roof…

I stopped trying to hide my amazed looks at her a pair of hours ago. She stopped trying to look like she doesn’t notice forty-five minutes ago. At some point of a long, awkward silence, I’m wiping my hands in a dishcloth and she closes the fridge’s door.

Dire Strait’s _Telegraph Road_ on the small radio.

 

 

I think I dropped the cloth, but, to my defense, she is kissing me, hard, both hands gripping my sweater and setting my skin on fire with gasoline. I won’t insult her by pretending I never thought about it. I won’t even ruin the mood by mentioning her age, or mine, and how _cliché_ it all is.

-”You haven’t unwrapped your gift yet” she sighs in my ear, and guides my hands behind her back, to the zipper of that perfect dress. “But you know where I live, right? I’ll be waiting. One of these nights…”

I’d say something clever, if I could breathe.

Instead, I lean down and bite her delicate neck, releasing her – _when did I start holding her waist?_ \- with a glance that, I hope, is very clear about my promise.

She strokes my cheek, whispers something about having to clean her lipstick out of my own lips, and, with a gait that could send the Lord to hell and back, leaves the kitchen like the Killer Queen she is.

 

 

Here I stand, conquered like foreign land.

 

 

_**Merry fucking Christmas.** _


	2. The saddest month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the sequel I've been asked for.  
> Definitely smuttier, as it was part of a NSFW prompt vast program of mine on Tumblr.  
> And since I never could write porn without lines and lines of feels, it's big. Sorry for that. 
> 
> Onwards with the pornage.

 

 

 

 

 

This is the saddest month of the year. Those exact days, between the 10th of January and mid-February. Daylight is still short-lived, bleak and cold, and all the merry lights of Holidays have been removed.

  
  


Parties over, tinsels unhung, everyone went home, and old London is back to work, shivering in that thick, ugly rain. Sidewalks are left to their tragic display of dead, naked Christmas pines waiting to be taken away with the usual trash.

  
  


Malcolm doesn't think about it.

  
  


He must feel it, somehow, as he watches those morose faces staring blankly at the facade of Number Ten in that bus passing by, all of them painted grey by the cheap, hideous inside lighting. But it doesn't go further than a vague, distant feeling.

He's been up early, even for his insane standards, and didn't care much about that nasty chill in the air, that acid wind and angry rain. Lack of sleep is only a deeper shade of red around his eyes. It could make his face look heartbreaking, but he knows exactly how to turn that into terrifying. 

  
Well, he'll need that today it seems.

There was a slaughter, somewhere in Paris. A pair of brainwashed twats in kevlar and the cheapest automatic guns in the market was all it took to kill fifteen people in five minutes. The reasons why, Malcolm summarized on a post-it note.  Something about fanaticism, something about humanity being so sick for such a long time that it had become a sickness itself. Like the planet's having fleas or so.

  
The PM has to say something about it this morning. Something clever, which means Malcolm has to write it himself.

  
The old political monkey will want to take advantage of it. Of course he will. He must. Elections are next year and he's as unlikely to do anything good until then than J. K. Rowling is to write a Harry Potter stripclub-universe sequel.

  
He needs to claim he's always loved the dead french fuckers. He needs to have their faces in solemn black and white as background as he speaks and he fucking has to spell their names right. You'd need to be a fucking moron not to realize he never heard about those cunts before, and if he had, he couldn't care less about them living or choking on their own blood.

But making it so sincere it'll bring tears to single mothers eyes from Dover to Liverpool is Malcolm's job. And he knows he'll do it right.

  
  


He just forgot a long time ago how utterly sick it makes him.

  
  


  
  


Sitting at his desk at 8.00 am sharp, a passive dawn barely breaking behind his windows, and blindly reaching for a mug of coffee he won't find, he sorely remembers for the tenth time this morning that Sam isn't there. 

  
She took a few days off after holidays to sort out the last remaining business about that twat of a boyfriend she had. She said he left with a few things belonging to her, and left a fuckload of his junk behind.

  
She said they were almost engaged.

There is a jab of pain, somewhere between his guts and his heart, as he pictures the proposal, but he barely notices.

He stares at the empty space where this coffee should have been and lack of sleep threatens to swing back to heartbreaking.

  
  


Sam made Christmas bearable.

_Fuck that._

Sam made Christmas **amazing.**

  
  


  
  


It's been ten days since she invited him to her home someday. _Private matters_. The memory of her silk dress under his hands has been engraved in his brain ever since. She told him all he had to do is call.

  
She kissed him and burnt his reasoning to ashes.

All of it.

  
  


But she stepped back at some point, and Malcolm's relentless, merciless brain quickly took over.

  
Sam is 25, his brain enumerates . Her skin is soft, her body a landscape of smooth ivory valleys. Her heart, and the spontaneous glee in her smile, somehow are still unharmed by the filth of this world. Her mind, though sharp and clever, is untainted by acid stains of cynicism. She's a diamond, freshly carved by the womb of the Earth.

He is 51. His face, body and hands are nothing more than sharp angles and harsh lines. He's white as a sheet, sick-thin, dry as a stump. He has been bathing in humanity's darkest mud-pits for so long that he sometimes thinks he sees in black and white. Everything is dull, false, rotten to him. The damage runs so deep that he cannot remember the last sentence he said that wasn't meant to kill.

Who does he think he's fooling.

  
  


She'd be miserable with him. She'd try to fix him, and she'd fail. She'd crush her precious heart again and again upon his walls before she gives up, but she will eventually. He's hopeless. Eaten alive by 30 years of war.

He'd break her.

  
  


She'd cry. She'd cry because of him, diamond girl, and he doesn't think he would stand the sight.

  
  


It's been ten days.

He never called.

  
  


  
  


  
  


_This is for the best_ , he tells himself this morning.

  
  


_This is for the best_ , he tells himself later, much later that night.

  
  


Slumped on his couch, his tie and jacket in a heap next to him, trying hard to ignore the fact that he had to re-watch three times the video of the PM's speech on his home television, because flashing memories of her kiss were still blinding him.

  
  


Staring at the empty space between the TV screen and the corner of the wall, neglecting the bowl of reheated pasta he never intended to eat.

  
  


_This is for the best_ , he tells himself.

  
  


  
  


When the doorbell rings, he's inspecting his hands. Trying to remember how they were when he was young. Smoother, maybe. He lost weight around his divorce. He spent those last 10 years skipping meals and clenching teeth anyway. _What the fuck does she find in me?_ he is thinking, when the doorbell rings.

  
  


He shrugs and walks to the door, and of course, of course, he should have known.

It is her, in glorious streetlights, in classy perfume, and tonight is doomsday night. He knows it at the first glance at her black lace stockings. Le Bourget.

  
  


The lady's out for a kill.

  
  


  
  


He mentally scans himself. Barefoot. Not his best shirt. Rumpled pants, tired eyes. Cold, dry hands.

And, Sam, Sam, of course, never looked so beautiful, her red dress glowing in the ugly rain, her heels subduing the pavement, defeating the city lights. Her hair tied back, her lips like an open wound in the silk of her face.

This is the night where all sins are paid for. He steps back in silence and lets her in, his eyes bowing down to her authority.

  
  


She shrugs her long coat off and his throat goes dry. The red dress is half made of lace. The best half. The upper half. He rubs his hands together, staring at them in doubt and despair.

  
  


-”Malcolm” she says.

  
  


He leads the way to the living room, silently moaning at the sight of it. She could have called.

  
  


-”You could have called” she says.

  
  


He almost laughs.

  
  


He wonders exactly what part of the reasoning behind the fact that he didn't call he could safely tell her. It gives him time to remove the pasta bowl and hang his jacket on a chair. He pushes some scattered papers on the floor with his foot. Hopeless. His apartment still screams of no fucks given.

Malcolm Tucker cannot find anything clever to say, and the whole country is made of people who'd find that hilarious. Except, of course, Sam Cassidy. She stands in the doorway between the hall and the living room in growing worry.

  
  


-”Malcolm, I just need to know. I can't stand this silence anymore. I need you to tell me to sit down or to go away. To stay or to leave. But I'm not going back without a clear answer.”

  
  


There is no way to explain himself without looking like a teenager caught red-handed. So, he doesn't. There isn't even a point in pretending he wants her to leave. All his reasons have been defeated by one single curve of her neck six minutes ago at the door. So, he doesn't.

He doesn't.

  
  


He vaguely gestures towards the couch and she sits down in grace, a faint smile on her killer queen lips.

  
  


  
  


He doesn't feel like he needs to say much more. He just mentally browses through his kitchen to check if still has good wine somewhere. He does.

When he disappears next door, she doesn't flinch.

When he comes back with that bottle and two glasses, she has crossed her legs high.

He's _doomed_.

  
  


Sam. Elegant, gorgeous Sam. His weakness, his blind spot. The part of his heart that hasn't died.

  
  


He pours wine, hands her a glass, and sits down next to her, choosing the exact distance between appropriate and encouraging.

  
  


Then, only then, he speaks in slow, cautious tones :

-”Do I really need to walk you through the list of reasons why we really shouldn't?”

  
  


-”What's item one on that list of yours?” she defies.

  
  


-”I am old.”

  
  


-”Did I ask for marriage and children?”

  
  


He closes his eyes. Gulps down his wine. _Touché._

  
  


-”I am still old. Even the rest may be disappointing to you.”

  
  


She eyes him, then. Calmly, slowly, from head to feet and back. Lingering on his stomach, his shoulders, his face. She weights everything he has on her own mental scale, and he feels like he could die from utter distress until she speaks again.

  
  


-”No, it won't”, she breathes, so confident that he could blush, if he had any blood to spare.

  
  


She gives him time to put down his glass of wine. She gives him that. But nothing more. The second after, her hand is on his cheek and her killer lips are on his. _Burning_ , burning his mind away. Like dry wood. He can almost hear his willpower breaking.

  
  


He parts her lips with his tongue, and refuses close his eyes all the way, because it would mean missing that view of her eyelids. Her hands are on his chest, and she looks like she is perfectly able to undress him without even a glance. But he has to breathe, at some point, and pulls away slightly. She's panting, a maddening hue of pink on her cheeks.

  
  


And much, so much in her eyes.

  
  


Desire and worry, caution and lust.

_Love._

  
  


Oh, so much love he almost hisses and runs away.

  
  


-”I'm your boss. This is painfully _cliché_.”

  
  


She laughs, then. She laughs like the queen she is, and unbuttons his shirt with no debate allowed.

  
  


  
  


-”Item two, right? Let me put you at ease, Malcolm. You are everything, right now, but _not_ my boss”.

  
  


With that, as clear illustration, she pushes him until he lays down on the couch and attacks his mouth again, slowly, deeply, until she feels his heart against her breasts skip a beat once or twice. The feel of his hard, bony frame between her thighs is something she didn't know she craved so much. She did think about it, many times, catching glimpses of him without his work suit jacket on, printing the way his shirt's light fabric was paying tribute to his angular shape into her mind.

  
  


But this. Head of Communications Malcolm Tucker, pinned under her weight into a couch, hers to do as she pleases...

This is beyond daydream.

She finishes his shirt and starts working on his belt, until she hears a growl that doesn't sound like approval and darts one glance up at him.

  
  


On his face, lines of worry quickly gather to form a very clear story about how close he is to violence and retreat. It takes a few moments to read, but she knows him so well. She learned those lines and their moves by heart. All of them.

There are tales of desire on his face, if that bulge in his trousers wasn't enough. But there is more. Doubt. Panic. Fear threatening to turn into rage. Warning bells ring through her head as she stops, smiles quietly, cups his face between her hands and whispers :

  
  


-”Allright, Malc. What's item three?”

  
  


His eyes narrow, and he hisses between his teeth a long, rapid speech that steadily grows from quiet to furious :

  
  


-”Item three, I am fucked up beyond repair. Do not even try. Item four, you should have a fucking normal life and a family, not waste your time with whatever is left of me. Item four, corollary, you should have come _twenty fucking years sooner_. Item five, _**have you even fucking looked at me**_?

  
  


When he's done, his eyes are positively burning holes into her, and his thin fingers are firmly grabbing her shoulders. It's her turn to be speechless for a minute.

  
  


-”Malcolm”. Is all she can say. “Malcolm.”

  
  


She doesn't know where to start. So, she kisses him again, gently, and as she pushes her breasts a bit more against his chest, his eyes blur, softening ever so slightly. His hands slide down to her waist and he wants her so bad he's almost trembling. All she needs to do is remove her dress, and he'd loose the fight. But no matter how dizzy she is with lust, she's not the one to stop caring.

So she speaks, softly, unhurried, her delicate, warm hands roaming through his skin as if to demonstrate:

-”Malcolm, you don't seem to understand. It's not about your age, or how thin, pale, or bloodless you are. It's not about the dark pit you claim your heart has become. It's not about your swearing or your anger.”

  
  


Speaking in hushed tones and soothing whispers, she finds a spot at the base of his neck that makes him shudder when she licks it. So, she licks it twice. The breathless curse he utters is very encouraging.

  
  


-”You are stunning, Malcolm. You are clever, the most clever man I know. I like your voice, your eyes and everything about your moves. Do you even know the elegance you have? Every wave of your hand could make me cry, oh, don't you dare roll eyes at me. You are so good that you can even make this endless fury of yours look sexy sometimes.

  
  


He stops rolling his eyes indeed, and a playful smile is invading his face. He doesn't look at her yet, but somewhere in the lines of his brow she reads his anger weakening.

  
  


-”Come on, are you that blind?” she adds, vehement. “By the way she was looking at you, you could have your way with that Daily Mail girl from last week anytime. She's 23, by the way. And it happens every month. I have a list of phone numbers left on your desk by an insane amount of women. I never told you, because I want you more than all of them. Malcolm, you don't fool me. You know your moves when you need them.”

  
  


He nods, and laughs a bit, low and breathy, mostly because her legs are pressed against his, and in her lying down, her short dress has wrinkled up to show the lacy trim of her stockings. His eyes cannot seem to unlock from that lace, and tough her victory is already complete, she can't resist one last straw :

  
  


-” And if it was only women... Have you seen how Jamie looks at you? Or Julius Nicholson? Those two crave to have you over their desks so hard I wonder how they can still formulate a complete sentence in your presence.”

  
  


At this point, he finally looks up at her, eyes wide open, eyebrows raised high.

  
  


Obviously, no, he didn't notice.

  
  


Having made her point quite clearly, she smiles, licks her own lips and enjoys the way his eyes follow her tongue in raw admiration.

  
  


-”Now shut up and undress me.” she commands.

  
  


He springs into action so fast she lets out a little yelp of surprise. His sharp teeth are on her jawline and his hands find the side zipper of her dress with a deftness that cannot be found in young men. She didn't know how cold his fingers were until they slip under the red lace and across her back. She shivers, and he winces in apology. His fingers retreat, but she grabs his wrists long before they leave her skin.

-”Don't you dare” she hisses.

  
  


A short battle rages in his brow between compliance and a filthy line of sarcasm for being bossed around. She licks his neck again, sliding up to his ear, leaving glowing marks of red lipstick all over his soft flesh. Compliance wins.

  
  


She unbuckles his belt. He doesn't protest anymore.

  
  


He removes the red dress with care and caution, like a man who has all the time in the world, and it drives her mad with frustration. She almost bites him as a retort, but his eyes on her body in underwear redeem every fault of this Earth. She never could decide if those eyes were blue or green or grey, and she's fine with that. They're huge, now, shining in glory, lost in awe and hunger, all because of her.

  
  


She smiles, thanking herself for the day she bought this bra and panties ensemble, one late shopping night at Lise Charmel's three years ago. Way too expensive for her earnings, but she bought it, and kept it anyways. She called it the Malcolm Ensemble.

Hidden in her drawers for three years, only looked at in longing and hope, for that night.

_For tonight._

  
  


  
  


His fingertips graze the smooth valley between her breasts in utter reverence, worshipping the black satin and guipure with connoisseur pleasure.

She presses her thigh against his crotch in eagerness and he sighs, unclipping the bra in a snap of two fingers. His thumbs are on her hard, cherry-coloured nipples at last, and he is so handsome in dimmed lights she feels her heart swelling. He strokes and cups her breasts with delicate moves, his need only readable in the lines of his brow, and under Sam's squeezing hand, between his legs.

  
  


Kissing her way down along the gaunt surface of his stomach, licking every crease of every rib, absolving the darkness that made him ignore his body for so long, she slowly reaches the waistband of his boxers.

He lets her remove them. He even arches his narrow hips and moans, when she cups his balls and skilfully rubs her thumb on his pink, wet tip.

But at the first glimpse of her tongue on his shaft, he grabs her face with sudden authority.

  
  


-”No.” he breathes. “You kneel for no one.”

  
  


And, with that, he unfolds like a cat, pushing her back into the couch with merciless strength, and lays down upon her, driving one knee between her thighs until she moans in delight.

  
  


He leaves one hand between her breasts, to keep her in place or to reassure her, she'll never know. Then, he steadily crawls down in a teasing path of gentle bites and soft licks. Her own mind strangely chooses this moment to mock her about her endless, lonely nights where she gave herself pleasure, picturing this sight exactly. Malcolm Tucker, naked in night lights, his long, supple fingers lost in her panties, his rough stubble against her inner thigh.

  
  


He slides two fingers inside her, and she knows what the feeling of her, already burning, slick and ready, is doing to him. She knows because of the flash of madness in his eyes, because of the quick tightening of his jaw. Like someone trying hard not to scream.

  
  


He starts a slow rhythm, eyes intense and focused, drinking the sight of her, feeding on her moans, but doesn't last. He hisses and swiftly takes her panties and garter off, and the way he throws them on the floor leaves no space for arguing.

One last sharp bite in the soft, tender flesh of her thigh.

His fingers, soaked in her, finding her sweet spot with an ability that cannot be found in any men.

And he's down on her.

  
  


Her hands reach blindly and grip the sofa as if to prevent her from drowning. She arches her back, throws her head back, whimpers, begs, laughs, _everything_.

  
  


He doesn't even flinch, his tongue rubbing her clit with expert firmness, only answering to the shudders of her hips. _You know your moves when you need them_ , she said.

Well, he does.

  
  


Soon enough, the only thing she can think of is to grab the hand he left on her chest and suck on those fingers with a hunger she'd be ashamed of in other places and times. She lets her tongue curl around his fingers and the clever man gets it, doing just the same with her down below. She wishes she could moan less loudly, pleasure sending any idea of control out of her reach. She dazedly wonders how pathetic she must sound. But she hears Malcolm's low rumble of approval, sending news sparks of blinding light to her brain, and stops worrying.

  
  


The rhythm he found is merciless, and her hips slip out of her control, arching up into his mouth. One of his fingers slides back inside her, and that's almost too much. She's close, so close already, fire spiralling up in her guts, and she loves it as much as she refuses it. Too soon. Unfair.

  
  


-”Malcolm!”

There must have been a greater hint of anguish than she meant to, for he freezes and crawls up to her face again.

  
  


-”What?”

  
  


His lips are redder than she ever saw them. He's always so pale. They're flushed and swollen and wet with herself and she almost forgets what to say.

  
  


-”Not now.” she stammers. “Not like that. Wait.”

  
  


He frowns, and his confusion is maybe the only reason why he lets himself be pinned back on the couch again. She straddles his hips and lays both her hands flat on his shoulders. He blinks, then seems to understand. _Not_ the boss.

A flash of violence-and-retreat in his eyes again, but she's not devoid of tricks either, and a slow push of her pelvis blurs his eyes, softens his face. He lets her have her way, his glassy stare following hers in a rich mixture of feelings, mostly coloured by lust.

  
  


She gives him no time to find a sentence. She deftly guides him into her, and sinks down in one move, implacable queen as she is.

  
  


The sound he makes, then, a tiny bit too high-pitched for his standards, is something she'll never forget. One of his hands darts to her thighs, grabbing her flesh there, half of the gentleness he had before burned to a crisp by the slow rhythm she chooses.

The other hand, after a fairly earned moment to clear his thoughts, sink back into her folds, finds back her clit, and draws lazy circles there. She screams something, his name maybe.

His pupils explode, and she tries hard to engrave that face in her memory. His look so dark, his skin so flushed, his mouth so young. His hair ruffled by the couch, his voice in ragged groans. So different it's almost terrifying.

  
  


Her pace soon quickens, and his eyes are closed at last. The movements of his fingers and hips seem to loose coherence, and his moans become real, amazing cries.

  
  


The feeling of him inside her alone could be enough for her to come here and now, if the sight of him didn't do the trick. She smiles sweetly. This is exactly how she wanted it.

  
  


That night.

Tonight.

  
  


Except that he suddenly grabs her waist and stops her.

His eyes are half lost and he's barely holding it together, but he finds a way to hiss a breathless warning :

\- “Slow down if you want it to last, darling. I'm too old to do it twice.”

  
  


She rolls her eyes in exasperation and slaps his hand away.

\- “Shut up” she says. “This is exactly what I want”.

  
  


He's too far gone to even notice that he's been told to shut up by his own PA.

  
  


He obeys, pliant and burning.

  
  


She moves again, in steady rocking moves, and he bites his finger to muffle his cries. Once more, she slaps his hand away, sending it to grip the sofa somewhere she doesn't care. She pushes deeper and he cries out. She grins in victory.

  
  


When she feels it's their last dance, she gently leans down to him, cups his face between her hands and kisses his neck again. She learns fast, she always did. She feels Malcolm's hands grip her back and hold her there. Then, he speaks her name, once. Only once, into her ear.

And it's not exactly that name that sends her over the edge. That's not his hot breath into her ear.

It's the bright, fierce love filling his broken voice.

  
  


She clenches around him, shuddering. She screams far louder than she wished to.

  
  


  
  


And after two more thrusts he follows, and he could have been loud too. But he's absolutely silent, head thrown back, mouth open.

  
  


If he had breath to spare, maybe. He could have been loud. Maybe.

  
  


  
  


Another place, another time.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


This is the saddest month of the year. And if the morning sky looks a bit brighter the next day, it's entirely fortuitous. In Paris, dead people are still dead. In London, half-life people are still grey.

Christmas pines are burnt, families are still apart.

And if there is a ray of sunshine in Malcolm's small bedroom this morning, well, this is pure luck.

  
  


She wakes up to the sight of him sitting up in the bed, texting rapidly on his Blackberry.

He showered, she can smell that. A fresh suit is already prepared on a chair next to the bed. On the floor, a folder. He'll be ready in ten minutes. His texting is most likely his clever lies to explain his being late.

  
  


She sighs.

  
  


He turns to her, a quick smile on his lips.

-“Hey.”

  
  


He's magnificent, in white and grey and light, light blue. He looks like nothing happened, except, maybe, for that glowing light in his eyes. He tells her that he gave her excuses until noon, that breakfast is ready downstairs, and that he has to go, his own excuses not running as far. He gives her the number of his assigned Number Ten chauffeur, saying the guy can be trusted to drive her home for a change of clothes and back to the office.

  
  


It's half past seven, and he laid down their next day on music paper. The boss is back.

  
  


He's magnificent, and she feels yesterdays smeared make-up glued to her eyelids, and her hair falling in messy strands on her face. Somehow she's sure she still smells of sex, and one of her earrings is missing.

She nods at everything he says, hiding her shame further down into the sheets. But his eyes on her redeem all the faults of this Earth, and one of his hands strokes her cheek in sweet reassurance.  
  
\- “Take your time, darling, eh?” he chimes. “We'll talk later.”

  
  


He looks so unruffled that she could be heartbroken, but there is something in the way he can't seem to leave her yet, in the way he just lingers on, loosing precious minutes, just looking at the mess she must be.

  
  


_We'll talk later_ , he said.

  
  


  
  


It's the saddest month of the year. If the city streets do sing one last song about hope, this morning, well, it can't be anything but good fortune.

  
  



End file.
